City of Ghosts (23 page)

Shit. “Could you hand me my bag, please?”

“Aye, got it—”

She hadn’t thought he would turn around to hand it to her; she hadn’t thought to grab her jeans and hold them in front of her. His eyes traveled up and down her bare legs, stopped on her wounded thigh.

“Ain’t just look like a burn,” he said. Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little strained?

Best to ignore it. “One of them had a knife and—Ow, dammit!”

“He ain’t got you, aye?”

“Ha, no. I got him, though. He …” She stopped. Stopped, because he wasn’t listening to her anyway. She knew that look. Had seen it on other men’s faces before, had seen it on
his
face before.

But he wasn’t moving; she wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Only his gaze kept in constant motion, up and down her legs, lingering on her breasts; she didn’t have to look down to know her nipples were poking at her T-shirt through her thin cotton bra.

Her tongue felt swollen three or four sizes too big. Should she say something? But what? She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to break the spell.

But just because he was there, and looking at her, didn’t mean anything. Just because he’d shoved his left hand into his pocket and his right shook slightly as he held her bag, that didn’t mean anything either.

They were stuck there, staring, while the air around them waited and the tracker gave the occasional beep. And she had a choice. She could walk up to him, press herself against him, and hope he wouldn’t turn away—hope he didn’t shove her away, which would be so humiliating she didn’t think she could ever get over it—or she could try to talk to him. Really talk to him.

Neither seemed like the right thing to do, but then when had she ever done the right thing?

“They—Lex, I mean—kidnapped me, right after that first night you took me to Chester.”

Chapter Twenty-three

We must not simply atone for our sins, our crimes against Truth, with words. We must atone for them physically as well.

—
The Book of Truth
, Laws, Article 323

True to form, wrong thing. His face darkened; he stepped away. “Ain’t—”

“He told me if I let Bump use the airport they would kill me. And I believed them, I mean, they kidnapped me from my apartment building. And maybe I should have come to you—I should have, I know that now—but I didn’t know you then, not like I did later. Not like I do now. And by the time I did it was too late. So I agreed. I didn’t want to but I agreed, and they gave me—they gave me stuff for free. That’s all it was.”

“Ain’t looked like—”

“And yeah, eventually I—I started seeing him.” Her mouth was so dry. She needed a drink, but was afraid to stop. He was listening; he wasn’t happy about it but he was listening, and she was not going to let him out of this—this whatever it was, it wasn’t a tunnel, it was some kind of room—without hearing the rest of the story. She had to tell it to him, couldn’t stand having it sit in her stomach like a lump of coal anymore.

“But what happened at the airport didn’t happen because of him, honest. It was all I could do, the only way to beat the thief. And I never told him anything about you, or about Bump, or anything, and I didn’t—He was just a friend, really. I never cared about him like I—It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t about that, it was just—”

He spun around. His eyes were slits in his angry face; his fury stretched between them, oozed sticky and dark over her already tender skin. Her heart hammered in her chest. “Why the fuck you givin me this? Think this supposed to, to fuckin make all better? You—”

“Because it’s the truth, and I want to tell you the truth, okay? I didn’t lie to you on the bridge that night, I was going to end it with Lex, I wanted to be—”

“Fuck this.” He snatched up the flashlight, stormed away from her. “Fuck this, fuck you. You—”

“Go ahead, run away from me. Pussy.”

“What?”
Oh, shit. If she’d thought he was angry before …

She wasn’t backing down, though. No way. She was sick of this game, sick of paying the price; weariness weighed on her, dragged her down behind the ever-strengthening rush of the room’s energy and her own anger and the slick, aching tickle of desire that had started the second his eyes found her bare legs. “You heard me, you fucking pussy. What’s the matter, Terrible? You afraid of me, afraid of some
girl?
Afraid to stand there and listen? What do you think I’m going to say, why can’t you just listen to me?”

“Wastin my fuckin time, is—”

“No! That’s bullshit and you know it. Come on. Listen to me—look at me, you’re not even looking at me, why? Why are you afraid to—”

“Shut the fuck up, Chess.”

“Make me.” The damp wall behind her was cool under her palms; she pressed them against it, braced herself. Her entire body shook. She was about to do something that would either get her what she wanted or get her killed, and at that particular moment she wasn’t sure she cared which. She couldn’t do this anymore, was all she knew. She missed him, and she wanted him, and she was so fucking guilty and she hated herself for hurting him, and she couldn’t let this sit between them anymore. One way or another it was ending. She needed him to end it. Needed him to do something, anything, to end it.

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Make me. Come on. Make me shut up.”

He gave his head a shake, started to walk away. Farther into the big dark room; she couldn’t see the walls very well, but water glistened in a crooked stream down one of them. And still magic whispered against her skin, probed her with delicate fingers. Tried to get in.

She pushed off the wall; the cold uneven cement scraped her bare feet as she headed toward him. “What got you so mad, anyway? That I was fucking Lex? Or that I wasn’t fucking
you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Make me!” She splashed through the narrow, shallow stream zigzagging down the center of the floor; the water was icy but she barely noticed it. He was only a few feet away. “Make me, Terrible. Come on. You want to hit me? You want to make me pay for what I did? Why don’t you, then? Make me pay, come on.”

No reply.

“Come on!” She pushed him. Hard, putting all her strength behind it, suddenly furious. Not just determined, not just angry, but furious. Who the fuck was he to judge her? To ignore her? To tell her he cared about her, wanted her, and then to turn on her because of one mistake? She was only human, only herself. She’d never had anyone to advise her, to pat her back and hold her hand through life. She’d had to make her own mistakes.

And she’d made them. And lying to him was one of them.

But he’d lied too. He’d lied, because he’d told her—not in those words, but he’d told her—that he’d seen something special in her. He’d made her believe, for that one moment, those two short days between the time he’d made his little speech and that horrible night in the graveyard, that there
was
something special in her. Something good.

And there wasn’t. And she’d hurt him, and she hated herself so much,
so much
for that, for making that mistake, for doing that to him, so much she couldn’t stand it another second, and he could make it stop. He could forgive her or he could punish her; somehow in the twisted magic-thick confusion of her mind he became the only one who could. He became the one who could punish her for
everything
, every pill and drink and powder and every lousy thing she’d ever done, Brain and Randy and the dead hookers she hadn’t saved and all of it—

So she pushed him, with every bit of strength she had, and was rewarded when he took an involuntary step forward.

“Fuckin stop it.” It was more than a warning, it was a growl from the depths of his throat; the sound of a wolf about to defend itself.

She ignored it. Pushed him again. “Why don’t you make me? I lied to you, right? I fucked somebody else, right? A lot! I fucked him a
lot
, Terrible, all over the place, all different positions.” Another push. “Doesn’t that piss you off? Why don’t you fucking do something about it? Why are you so scared to—”

“Shut the fuck up, I ain’t—”

“I hurt you, right? So why don’t you hurt me? You want to hurt me, Terrible? Hurt me back?” Another shove, harder. She was getting into it, getting lost in it; energy raced up her body, rage and pain and lust, swirling around her, making her vision blur, and she couldn’t get rid of it. Couldn’t make it go away. Couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her voice echoed in her ears, echoed against the walls around them; she heard the edge of panic in it, felt tears slide down her cheeks.

“Come on, Terrible! Hurt me. Hit me. You want to? Make me pay. Please, Terrible, just—just—”

One more shove, her entire body behind it. He spun around, his face almost unrecognizable; one arm raised, ready to strike.

“Fuckin warning you—”

“Don’t fucking warn me, hit me! Hit me, you pussy! You fucking—you asshole, you fucking—”

Her swing was clumsy, her vision too blurred for accuracy. It hit him, though, caught him—somewhere, the jaw she thought—with a resounding crack that sent pain streaking up her arm. Glorious pain, her entire body was tight with the anticipation of more, she needed it and she needed him to give it to her.

“Fuck!” His hand started to move up to his cheek, but she couldn’t back off. Couldn’t stop hitting him, shoving him. Power thundered through her blood, through her body; incoherent thoughts tumbled through her brain like kaleidoscope images.

“Hit me! Hit me back, why won’t you punish me? Please, please you fucking shithead bastard just do it, hit me, please …”

She swung again, connected again, his upper arm she thought. Good, but not enough, not enough, he wasn’t hitting her, what was wrong with him why wasn’t he hitting her, couldn’t he see how bad she needed it, why wouldn’t he punish her just fucking make her—

She fell backward without realizing it, her brain stupidly refusing to see him in front of her, to understand what was happening. She could barely see, couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears.

But she could feel.

Feel his lips on hers, giving her the punishment she’d craved, hard and bruising and demanding. Felt his body above hers, felt his arm beneath her check their fall then snake up so his fingers could twist in her hair and crank her head back.

Her already racing heart leapt so hard she thought for sure he could feel it. His free hand shoved itself under her shirt, yanked her bra cup out of the way, found her nipple; she cried out into the darkness, into him.

“Fuck you, Chess,” he mumbled into her throat, and she didn’t know if he was cursing her or making a promise and she didn’t think it mattered either way. “Fuck you.”

Her right leg was free; she wrapped it around his waist, pulled him closer to her. Her back scraped against the damp cement and she didn’t care. All she cared about, all she wanted, was to feel his bare skin against hers; all she cared about was that he wouldn’t stop, that he wouldn’t come to his senses and leave her there alone on the cold ground.

Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, moving as quickly as she could despite the distraction of his mouth on hers again. His tongue danced against hers, his fingers curled around the back of her neck. Every bit of fury, of energy, of fear and pain and misery and hatred she’d felt a second ago remained, channeled into something else, into need so desperate and consuming she thought it might kill her and she couldn’t bring herself to care one bit.

She gave up on the buttons, reached under the shirt instead, under the T-shirt he wore beneath it, finding warm skin and hard muscles. His heart pounded beneath her palms; she slid them across his chest and felt the thick hair and the odd scar on the left side. The scar she’d made.

“Chess,” he said again, a gasp into her mouth as his lips devoured hers. “So … so fuckin bad, want you so fuckin bad … shit so
fucking
bad …” Cool air hit her stomach, her chest; he’d bunched her shirt up out of the way. His teeth scraped the skin of her throat, over her collarbones, down farther until he caught her nipple in his mouth and pulled it hard. Heat exploded through her body; his hot, wet tongue teasing her, his teeth almost, but not quite, digging into her skin.

Her voice echoed again off the walls; no words this time. She didn’t think she knew any. Couldn’t think of any, save perhaps “please.” And then she realized that was what she’d said, that she was still saying it. Realized her right hand was tangled in his hair and her back had arched up off the cement and her left hand clutched at his shoulder so hard it hurt.

“Please, please, Terrible, please …” She couldn’t stop; she dragged his head up, his mouth back to hers. Yanked his shirt up so she could feel his skin against her, so she could run her hands over it, then slid them farther down, over his ass, lifted her hips and pulled him even closer so his erection ground against her. His belt buckle gave with a sharp tug, his buttons with another one; he gasped against her lips when she pushed her hand into his open fly, gripped the heavy solid length of his cock through his boxers. It jerked against her palm and her insides went liquid.

“Shit, Chessie … oh fuck …” He kissed her harder, his hips moving against her hand, until her ears were ringing and everything in the room disappeared. She didn’t even know where they were anymore. All she knew was that he was there, and for that moment he was hers, and she’d waited too long, wanted him for too long, and she couldn’t wait another minute. All that mattered were his hands all over her body, caressing her uninjured thigh, her stomach, her breasts, her face, like he was trying to touch her everywhere at once.

Her panties disappeared with an audible protest she paid not the slightest attention to, especially not when they were almost immediately replaced by something much better. His hand found her smooth bare skin, hesitated; then pressed forward, exploring her, and she had a second to be almost embarrassed by how wet she was, by how badly she wanted him and how he knew it, until she pulled his boxers out of the way and found she wasn’t the only one.

He was hard and hot, swollen and slick with his own desire; she closed her fingers around the thick shaft and twisted gently, played the heel of her hand over the blunt head. He gasped her name again as his hips pressed forward and their kiss, their long, shared kiss, became something even more; like she was breathing him in, like he was feeding her. She wanted to look down, to see him, but she couldn’t pull away from that kiss. Couldn’t bear to end it.

She fumbled at the waistband of his jeans, trying to push them down but unable to ignore his two thick fingers working inside her and the way her inner muscles clamped down on them, unable to ignore that he’d found exactly the right spot with his thumb and was stroking it in exactly the right way.

“Shit, yes … please don’t stop, Terrible, please don’t stop, fuck, please—”

“Ain’t fuckin stopping,” he growled. And he didn’t, and she finally pulled her mouth away from his because she needed air, because all of her blood had left her head and was congregating farther south, and she clutched at him and her eyes squeezed shut and she exploded.

He didn’t wait, didn’t give her a chance to come down before his fingers disappeared and he thrust into her, all of him at once stretching her, sending her back over the edge. Still he didn’t stop. His hips pounded against hers, punishing her. Giving her what she’d begged for, what she still wanted. She felt his teeth sink into her neck and screamed into the darkness, shoved her hands up under his shirt and dug what little fingernails she had into the soft skin there.

He groaned and pushed her harder still, his body shaking. Forcing her to keep up his furious pace, forcing her to accept every bit of him. His thumb slipped back between her legs, teased her again, and this time she couldn’t find words to scream but screamed just the same.